


That One Time Lucky Slept on the Couch

by helwolves



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Inadvisable Sex with Your Mentor/Not-Sidekick/Whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:02:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1733738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helwolves/pseuds/helwolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s far from the first time he’s woken up with Kate in his bed, but he knows this time’s different. This time’s the doozy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That One Time Lucky Slept on the Couch

_ Brooklyn. Morning. Sort of. _

“Aww, Katie, no.”

When Clint wakes he feels it immediately. The memories are fuzzy but he _knows_. He feels the hangover like a warm, slightly nauseating blanket wrapped around his head. But he feels the girl like a warm, very comforting blanket wrapped around the rest of him.

“Shut up,” she mumbles into his chest, snuggling in closer and tickling the hair there with her breath as he attempts to squirm away.

It’s far from the first time he’s woken up with Kate in his bed, but he knows this time’s different. This time’s the doozy.

“We didn’t —”

“We did.”

“But I didn’t —”

“You _did_.”

He groans and rolls onto his side, facing away from her, tugging the tangled sheets up to his chin and squeezing his eyes shut. She doesn’t miss a beat, though, pressing herself along the length of him, her breasts squishing against his back, her hand finger-walking over his hip and slipping down his — whoops, yeah, he’s definitely not even wearing boxers.

“Kate, no —” he attempts, as her small, callused ( _perfect_ ) fingers wrap loosely, teasingly, around his cock. “Wasn’t s’posed to... Not — _ah_ , fuck — not you.”

She laughs against the back of his neck, a little snort that he knows is accompanied by a withering smirk. “Careful, you might hurt my feelings with that crap.” But she doesn’t move away, just strokes him more determinedly, and mouths at a big fading bruise on his shoulder.

“No, no, not that. Not you, just...” (You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You’re _Katie_. You’re smarter than this.) “Like, I ruin everything, I can’t, not _you_.”

“Little too late, Barton.”

He groans again, not sure if it’s more her touch or her words, things firing off all wrong together in his head. He tries to bury his face in his pillow. Maybe if he makes himself pass out, he’ll wake up in his bed alone, not having done the worst thing he could possibly have done. But his pillow smells like her.

It occurs to him that his pillow has always smelled like her. The quilt on his couch. Half his clothes. For _months_. Everything around him has, and he didn’t notice until she was gone. That’s always how these things go, isn’t it. You don’t notice until —

“Hey,” she’s saying softly, not for the first time. He rubs his eyes and steals a look at her over his shoulder. Hair a dark, tangled ( _beautiful_ ) halo around her face. Makeup smudged under her eyes in an improbably appealing way he thought only happened to girls in movies. Then she smiles and her whole face lights with it and he can’t help smiling back a little, even in his confusion.

She pulls on his shoulder and crawls on top of him as he settles onto his back. His hands instinctively slide up her pale thighs, under the (Avengers-branded, _god_ ) t-shirt of his she’s got on, mapping the curves of her hips and her waist. He squeezes his eyes shut again helplessly. He can’t keep looking at her, but he can’t stop touching her either.

“You didn’t _ruin_ me. You think _you_ can ruin _this_?” She laughs again, softer this time. Her hands trail down his chest and it tickles but he can’t laugh back. “Look at me, Clint.”

He can feel her hair falling around his face and when he opens his eyes she’s right there. The smirk’s gone, the smile’s gone, her blue eyes are impossibly huge and serious. “I’m pretty sure I _saved_ you,” she says. “Or I will. I don’t know. You know?”

He wants to kiss her ( _again_ , fuck). He wants to believe her.

“Don’t worry so much,” she says. “I’m the best there is at what I do.”

He laughs then and she does too and it feels good, genuine, fond as hell. “Girly, I think that tagline’s taken.”

Then she’s arching back up and pulling the t-shirt off and okay maybe he can believe anything she wants him to believe and she can steal any trademarked tagline she wants to steal along with every single one of his shirts. Do they even have trademarks in Canada? What’s French for — but then she’s reaching behind her and grabbing his dick again and what was he talking about?

“Wish I remembered more of last night,” he says, his voice rough with disuse and desire and a vague sense of impending doom.

“Maybe we can remind you.” 

He pushes up into her hand as she rolls a rubber onto him and then she shifts around and he pushes up into _her_ and he lets out all the breath he’d been holding in one long shuddering sigh. Her little satisfied gasp as she sinks all the way down on him is the sexiest fucking thing in the world — wait, no, that honor goes to the noises she makes once she’s started to ride him, and goddammit he’s never going to be able to train with her again without getting a massive hard-on after this, is he.

As usual, as always, she takes what she wants from him, and he’s happy to just be along for the ride, let her do her thing, until she’s whining and shaking and clawing at his chest, and he can’t stop himself from reaching for her, sitting up and pulling her hard against him, wetly kissing her throat and whispering her name as she breaks and he follows right after her.

“C’mere,” Kate purrs, curling around him after he collapses back into the blankets and begins to ponder sleeping for several days. “Not done with you yet, old man.”

* * *

_ Some hours later. _

Clint’s pretty sure he won’t be able to move again for a week but Kate’s already dancing around his bedroom, combing her fingers through her hair, pulling on some of her own clothes from his dresser-slash-pile-of-boxes. The dog lets out one of those long-suffering dog sighs from the foot of the bed where he’s finally been allowed to reclaim his usual napping spot.

“Kate? Do we need to, like, talk about this?”

The expression revealed after she finishes tugging a shirt over her head is answer enough, but she says anyway: “No. You’re the worst and I’m the best and we do _not_ have to talk about it more than we have.”

“You’re not a Skrull, are you? I mean, that would be weird, but —”

“ _No_. Ass.”

“Just checking.” He rubs his eyes, grins, figures it works since she smiles back in an only slightly annoyed-looking way. “Kate?”

“ _What_?”

( _There_ it is.) He quirks an eyebrow at her. Hopes he looks cute.

“Are you gonna go make the coffee?”


End file.
